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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26510263">our ardent hearts</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/sadsparties/pseuds/sadsparties'>sadsparties</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Terror (TV 2018)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Dress Up, Engagement, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Love Letters, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Poly, historical handwaving dont @ me</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 08:27:22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,534</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26510263</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/sadsparties/pseuds/sadsparties</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Captain Francis Crozier is a week early to the wedding.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Captain Francis Crozier &amp; Lady Ann Ross, Captain Francis Crozier &amp; Sir James Clark Ross, Captain Francis Crozier/Sir James Clark Ross, Lady Ann Ross/Sir James Clark Ross</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>35</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>The Two Captains Fest 2020</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>our ardent hearts</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/fiendlikequeen/gifts">fiendlikequeen</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>My dear Captain Crozier,</p>
<p>... in the event of your further delayed return, your faithful friend, whom I may truly rejoice to call my dearest James, is prepared to take command of a third by way of Baffin’s Bay, and both our hearts are ardent in the cause….</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>
  
</p>
</div><p>
  <span>When the omnibus rounds the corner to reveal The Abbey, its dark-washed outer walls somber in the cloudy afternoon, Francis immediately knows the reason for its choosing. It is a fine place to retire — a solid box shape surrounded by farmland and grass, the grounds lush and green in the throes of summer. The tall hedges provide the residents absolute privacy, and on one side, a pond deters the overcurious attempts of snoopy neighbours. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Francis need not be here, now, when his duties could have excused him for a few days yet. But James had insisted, pleaded even, and if anything could be said in absolute about Francis, it was that he would allow James anything.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Captain Crozier,” the lady of the house says, eyes bright and keen. “I’ve long wanted to meet you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As they are finally introduced, Francis feels the tip of a lingering sword fall upon the back of his neck. He remembers the first time that James mentioned her in his letters — an unremarkable encounter during a visit to his sister. Francis had been amused then, charmed, until James had written of her again, and again, for nine years.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s no business of his whom James attaches himself to — only the attachment has its consequences, and that stings Francis most of all. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He puts on a taut smile, painfully rehearsed in the four hours to the country, and takes the soft fingers of her hand. Francis bends his head and kisses the bride of him whom he loves best. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And I you, Miss Coulman,” he returns. “James has told me so much about you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She bristles in her feet, pleased. Her gaze sidles to James and they speak in that silent way lovers do, both familiar and different to Francis that he is forced to look askance. A hand on his arm makes him turn.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Please,” she says. “Call me Anne.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He is given a room and a servant, and when asked to come down for tea, invokes weariness from the journey. For the next few days, Francis makes himself scarce, letting alone the ebbs and flows of the manor’s proceedings while he pitters away on the fringes of civility.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He is introduced to James’s sister Isabella, an accomplice in this union; to Anne’s father Thomas, its greatest detractor. The Abbey’s halls ring with eager laughter, and Francis steers clear of the milieu of cousins who are likely to follow him with their eyes and giggle at his bashfulness.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His luck runs out eventually.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Captain Crozier,” Anne beckons to him through the open doors of the library. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Francis steals a glance at the hallway, believing for a foolish second that some other captain who shares his name is required to respond. He indulges this fancy before joining Anne in the chesterfield. An almanack is on her lap, the page displaying a chart of constellations. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m learning all I can,” she confides. “James taught me the rudiments, although that was years ago, and having no practice it’s easy to forget.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>In the very center of the spread is Ursa Minor, the tail of its trusted and friendly outline covered by a nervous thumb. Anne curls her lip as she wavers on the edge of a question. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Will you indulge me, Captain?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Francis is hesitant, having long left this particular lesson to master’s mates; but Anne’s demeanour is earnest, eager, and he feels he would be a second-rate captain if he refused her now. He takes the book and spreads it between them, then points to the first pattern in the chart.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Cassiopeia of the northern hemisphere,” he starts. Anne nods attentively. “In a clear sky, it’s impossible to miss, and in Arctic summer you’ll find it right above Polaris.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They cover the entire chart, with Francis imparting how best to spot the constellations in lower latitudes. Lyra and Draco, Auriga and Perseus. Anne is a quick study, so much so that Francis suspects she has no need for instruction. He doesn’t think it a ruse, a gracious host suffering through a chore so her guest can sing her praises. Anne’s attention is sincere, and, however short their acquaintance, he is certain she is not vain.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You skipped some,” she observes. “Quite a few, really.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Francis follows her fingertip to the pattern of Virgo, large and sprawling on the page; beneath that, Cetus and Eridanus; and on the corner, a staple for any beginner, the four stars of Crux.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’ve omitted the southern stars, Captain.” Francis blinks. “Not on purpose, I hope.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He meets Anne’s gaze, mouth open to an explanation that doesn’t come. Neglect, chance, only neither are true. He stares at the matrix of constellations neatly printed with its large labels — diagrams made for learning, for remembering. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He doesn’t want to remember. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His left hand has started to shake and Anne reaches out to lay a palm on his arm. When she speaks, her voice carries no judgment.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Don’t fault yourself please. James does it as well. He’ll take the whole three courses to recount your voyage south, but I can’t help but feel as if he’s only telling half the story.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The mere mention makes bile rise in Francis’s throat. “You’ll know it soon enough,” he hints. “With the memoir.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Anne answers with a smile that is doleful, wise. “Forgive me for thinking that a memoir isn’t obliged to tell the complete truth, at least it isn’t in James’s family. If I’m to understand what haunts him in his waking hours, it won’t be from his public report.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A sigh escapes Francis and he looks away. He finds himself in a quandary — to betray James, who bade to forget the matter unless forced otherwise; or to appease the woman looking out for him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And she is a woman indeed, this Anne, no longer the 18-year old girl whom James first described as wide-eyed with wonder. Miss Coulman has the perceptive eye of a captain, and her resolve is as assured as the wooden columns of their masts. She folds her hand carefully over his, resting the trembling to stillness, and Francis begins to realise, as he realises the logic of The Abbey, the reason for her choosing.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I won’t impose,” she says, “not if neither of you are ready. But I will share his burden in the coming years, and inseparable as you are, so will I share yours.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Anne’s eyes shine in the afternoon light, open and honest. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I hope you won’t find it too forward, Captain, but I dearly wish us to be friends. There is something of you in James, and he in you, and I’d be remiss to marry one man and be strangers with the other. I feel as if I knew you even before we met.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She gives his hand a parting squeeze and rises from the chesterfield. Her words ring in Francis’s ears for the rest of the day, all throughout dinner and the following morning, until James finds him staring out at the pond while a swan is feeding her cygnets. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Missed you at breakfast, old man,” James says by way of a greeting. At Francis’s silence, he hooks an arm around Francis’s shoulder and applies the gentlest of pressures. Francis lets himself be drawn to a sturdy chest.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And here I thought you and Anne were getting along. You made a lovely picture in the library yesterday.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Francis scoffs. Of course. He turns and mounts his chin on the well-known perch of James’s shoulder. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You need not orchestrate such things, you know. We will warm to each other eventually, though I confess I’m not looking forward to being an envoy between you both. I was put in a bit of a bind yesterday.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>James’s brow rises in curiosity. “You were?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hmm, there was a question she couldn’t bring herself to ask you, so she came to me instead.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Francis relinquishes the comfort of James’s embrace and holds him at arm’s length. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It was a delicate matter, James, and it would have been better had you told her yourself. Is she speaking to you at all?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>James frowns and casts a dark gaze towards Francis. “What did you tell her, Frank?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“She asked me...”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Go on.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Your lady wished to be certain...”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I won’t be mad, Francis.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“She wanted to know—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, for God’s—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“—if she should bring ear plugs into your bedroom.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Francis enjoys three full seconds of James’s befuddled face before being tackled to the ground. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He lands hard on his back, the world tilting to a frenzy as his breath is stolen out of him. A string of superlatives pour out of James’s filthy mouth and Francis can do nothing but cackle, as loud as a man abundant with cheer and deep in his spirits. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They take to the roughhousing like a pair of newly commissioned ship’s boys, yipping and howling without a care for the curious faces popping out of the manor’s second-story windows. There will be grass stains, surely, and an apology issued to the laundress, but for now Francis is filled with so much happiness he thinks he might burst.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>---</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>They are resting on their rolled up frock coats when the malady that afflicts all grooms finally grabs hold of James.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, my God,” he cries. “What am I doing?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>James hides his face in his hands and groans. Beside him, Francis’s mouth hangs in disbelief.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re joking.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I'm serious! How can she marry me? Look at me!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Francis rolls his eyes and attempts to resume his nap. This is a temporary condition, he’s heard. Soon enough James will remember that he is graced with the finest of features, with dark, piercing eyes and a volume of hair coveted by men and women alike.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Except James sits up. He holds his hands out and stares helplessly at his splayed fingers. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It is minute but it is there, as discreet as it is notable, the tell-tale sign of too many brushes with death.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m a ruin,” James mutters. “How can she marry me when I can barely hold a teacup, let alone write?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“James…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What if it doesn’t stop, Frank? I'll never finish that thrice-damned memoir. And what of children? So vulnerable with their small heads; will I even be trusted to hold my own? Anne will want me to try but Lord what if I drop them, what if I—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The rest of James’s apprehensions are smothered by the solid curve of Francis’s shoulder. James clings to him as Francis rocks them gently, forward and back, like the cradle tucked away as his wedding gift.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Francis will miss this, among many — James Clark Ross unmoored, not his vulnerability but the privilege of being the lone other allowed to see it. For so long, it had only been the two of them, with this cherished thing so sturdy in its origins yet so delicate that it can’t survive the introduction of a third.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Were it a day prior, and had James clung to him like so, Francis would have given voice to a dearly withheld sentiment, once put to writing after a thorough night at a drinking-house then fed to a lit taper. ‘Come away with me,’ it read. ‘We’ll sail out on a cutter and needn’t be bothered by anyone ever again.’ </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But the difference of a day is all it takes to reverse a ship’s fate, as it is to alter an opinion of someone. Francis reluctantly pulls away, bracing himself as he gives voice to a very different sentiment.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It may stop, or not. We can’t really tell, but what I’m certain of, James, is that you have chosen a fine woman, with the integrity of her own thoughts. And if her devotion remains after seeing you altered on your return, then you must trust her decision. I doubt it was made lightly.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re right, I know you are. It’s just—” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>James breathes deeply and releases it in a heavy sigh. He shakes his head, once, as if ridding himself of a horrid thought. “I’m terrified, Frank. Absurd to be saying that after what we went through, but I am.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Then it’s just as well that you won’t be standing at the altar alone, hmm?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>James blinks, baffled for a moment, and when realisation dawns on him, he laughs weakly. “No. No, I won’t, will I?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It will be just like the </span>
  <em>
    <span>Cove</span>
  </em>
  <span>, the two of us at the helm.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>James smiles as he reaches out and folds his hand carefully over Francis’s. “Thank you, Frank dear,” he says, the relief in his voice palpable. “I don’t think I say it enough.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Francis returns James’s smile before fumbling for something behind himself. “You’re very welcome. Now,” he shoves the bundle of his stained frock coat to James’s arms and moves to stand, “see to it that the laundress doesn’t give me an ear for that.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Francis is not completely spared from the laundress’ ire, not when one of his nightshirts returns with a missing button. His dress uniform, at least, is immaculate. The thick wool has been ironed with precision, starched and hung up to remove the creases that betrayed its age; and the epaulettes, heavily tarnished at his arrival, have been buffed to a shine.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Francis raps four knocks to the door of the library, the room having been repurposed as the groom’s lounge. A three-panel mirror is spread beside the couch, perfectly placed so the viewer might see themselves in the light of the full windows. Francis finds James taking advantage of it, feet apart and hands joined behind him like a captain at the quarterdeck. He still is to Francis, always.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They stand together and perform a silent inspection of each other’s uniform. James is impeccable, as always, and though he appears less polished, Francis has learned to relish the sight of them at each other’s side. He traces the edges of James’s shape in the glass face, from the peak of his soft hairline down to his broad shoulder, round his gleaming shoes, and back up to the stray lock of hair at his temple. Francis cleaves this shape into memory, hoping that the next time he looks at a mirror, he will be able to conjure James’s outline, and thus be at peace.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Are you ready?” he asks. The sound of a whine fleets from the window, the horses of their coaches growing impatient. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>James lets out an excited breath and meets Francis’s gaze in the mirror. His expression is determined, elated, with a tinge of wickedness that is reflected in Anne’s face when Francis asks her the same question.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s just taken nine years, Captain,” she drawls. “I’m more than ready.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Francis chuckles as he passes her the bouquet. “I’ve no doubt of it, and Anne?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Anne is halfway out the southern parlour when she turns. Francis braces himself and stands tall, clears his throat.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Please,” he says. “Call me Frank.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The varied sounds of the wedding party slowly fade into a murmur. Anne doubles back, with such fondness in her eyes that it makes Francis’s heart swell. She reaches out and takes his hands, both of theirs trembling, and presses a sweet kiss to Francis’s cheek. </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>… I will not however lengthen this note as we may perhaps shake hands in the place of your receiving it, and with a prayer of God’s blessing upon you &amp; your enterprise &amp; my kind love, I am,</p>
<p>My dear Frank,<br/>yours most truly,<br/>Ann Ross</p></blockquote></div></div>
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